A few days later, Mrs. Hudson was milling around her flat on the ground floor, cleaning up after dinner as usual. She opened the fridge to put a bottle of milk away but recoiled at the smell inside. Putting the milk to the side, she started rummaging through the fridge to find the source of the stench.

It didn't take her long to find the offending item: the salad crisper. Frowning in confusion, she opened the crisper and took out a clear plastic bag that she had no memory of putting in there. She held up the bag to the light, then cringed and almost dropped it when she realized what it was. "Ooh dear!" she exclaimed. "Thumbs!"

She placed the bag back into the salad crisper and started upstairs to ask the boys if they had left the thumbs in her fridge- Sherlock did some strange things, after all- when an overweight man stumbled into the kitchen from the landing, barely clinging on to consciousness and seeming confused to see her here. "The door was... the door was..." he attempted.

And then he fainted.

Mrs. Hudson stared at him in terror for a moment, then looked up at the stairs. "Boys!" she called. "You've got another one!" She bent down closer to the unconscious man, who was sprawled out on the floor now. "Oh!"

A few seconds later there was the sound of three people rushing out of the flat upstairs, and then Sherlock was standing in the doorway; a second later, Max and John leaned out from behind him, trying to see around him. "Oh wow," Max commented. "That's a new one."

Mrs. Hudson smiled at her. "Oh, Max, I didn't know that you were still here!" she exclaimed.

Max shrugged. "I was over for dinner and then we got into an intense game of Go Fish," she said. "I'm winning right now, actually. Six pairs."

Sherlock scoffed. "For now," he grumbled. "I know you have a Queen-"

"How do you know?!" Max protested.

He rolled his eyes. "Simple math," he said. "Considering that we've put down one pair of threes, sixes, jacks-"

John cleared his throat. "Is there any way we could possibly get back to the unconscious man on the floor?" he suggested.

Max nodded. "Right!" she exclaimed. "That guy!" She glared at Sherlock. "This isn't over."

000

About half an hour later the man had regained consciousness enough to tell them that his name was Phil.

Phil was currently sitting on a dining chair facing the fireplace, his hands wrapped around a warm mug of hot chocolate that Max had made for him. John was sitting on the sofa behind him while Max sat at the dining table and Sherlock paced in front of him. "Tell us from the start," Sherlock ordered. "Don't be boring."

Even though he still seemed a bit out of it, Phil began his story.

000

Fourteen hours earlier.

Phil was out in the middle of the countryside, at least an hour's drive from any town. His car had just broken down on a quiet country lane, and he was sitting in the drivers seat, trying to start the engine for the umpteenth time... to no avail.

He groaned and got out of the car once again, examining the open bonnet once again, tweaking a few connections here and there. When nothing happened, he looked around hopefully for somebody he could ask for help; but the road to his side was empty, and the field on his other side was empty too.

Wait... no, it wasn't. The field stretched down to a river some distance away, and Phil could see a man wearing a red jacket standing at the edge of the river with his back to the road, looking up at the skies. Phil looked at him contemplatively, then decided that he was too far away. Sighing, Phil turned and got back into his car, trying once more to start the engine.

The first sign that something was wrong was that the engine started whining loudly, which it hadn't done before. The second sign was a violent bang that echoed throughout the field; the engine had backfired.

Biting back a curse, Phil looked across towards the river, expecting to see the man standing there... but he was now lying on the ground. Phil got out of the car for a better look. "Hey!" he shouted. "Are you okay?"

No response.

Phil started to walk towards him, concerned now. "Excuse me!" he called. "Are you alright?"

Unseen by Phil at the moment, the man had fallen into his back, sprawled out on the ground... and there was blood underneath the back of his head.

000

Now.

By the time the sun rose the next morning, a crime scene had been set up at the riverside, under Detective Inspector Carter. A young police officer hurried up to the DI, a mobile phone in his hand. "Sir," he said. "Phone call for you."

Carter took the phone, bringing it to his ear. "Carter," he greeted.

"Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?" someone asked from the other side of the line. Carter recognized him as DI Lestrade.

He frowned. "Who?" he replied.

"Well, you're about to meet him now," Lestrade said. "This is your case, it's entirely up to you. This is just friendly advice, but give Sherlock five minutes on your crime scene and listen to everything that he has to say. And as far as possible, try not to punch him."

Carter blinked. "What?" he asked, but Lestrade hung up without answering.

Up by the road, a car had driven up and stopped by the crime scene as Lestrade had been speaking. Sighing, Carter started walking towards the car.

The police officer who had brought him the phone earlier was speaking to someone in the backseat, and as Carter approached the officer turned towards him. "Sir, this gentleman says he needs to speak to you," he said.

Carter nodded. "Yes, I know," he replied. He walked closer to the car. "Sherlock Holmes," he greeted.

A man stepped out of the car, average height and prematurely graying hair. "John Watson," he corrected.

Before Carter could reply, a woman clambered out of the car after him. She was taller than John, with dark mahogany hair and warm blue eyes. "Ugh, that was a long car ride," she grumbled. "My legs are stiff." She smiled at Carter. "Hi, I'm Max."

Carter looked from Max to John in confusion, probably trying to figure out where Sherlock fit into this, but then John pulled out a laptop from his bag. "Are you set up for Wi-Fi?" he asked.

000

A few minutes later, Max and John had managed to set up the laptop, and they watched on the screen as Sherlock strolled into the living room of the Baker St flat, wearing only a white bedsheet wrapped around him. "What are you wearing?" Max demanded.

Sherlock looked at her oddly. "A sheet," he answered through the video call, as if that were obvious. Max sighed.

John scowled at him. "You realize this is a tiny bit humiliating?" he told Sherlock.

Sherlock just yawned, picking up a mug of tea from the dining room table. "It's okay, I'm fine," he reassured him. "Now, show me to the stream."

John sighed. "I didn't really mean for you," he said.

Max rolled her eyes. "C'mon, Johnny boy," she grumbled. "Let's get this over with." She picked up the laptop, and the two of them walked down to the stream where the man had been found dead.

"Look, this is a six," Sherlock told them, as if that explained everything. "There's no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Max, stop. Go back, show me the grass."

Sighing, Max stopped walking and titled the laptop down at the grass by the stream's edge, squatting down for a better view. John stood over her shoulder, sputtering indignantly. "When did we agree that?!" he protested.

Sherlock scoffed. "We agreed it yesterday," he reminded him. "Stop, Max! Closer."

Before Max could do anything, John snatched the laptop from her and swung it around so that he was talking to Sherlock. "I wasn't even at home yesterday!" he exclaimed. "I was in Dublin!"

Sherlock gave him a look. "Well, it's hardly my fault you weren't listening," he retorted.

Max frowned. "That's, uh... That's not how it works, Sherlock," she told him.

Suddenly there was the sound of a doorbell from Sherlock's side, and he turned around to glare at the door. "SHUT UP!" he shouted, then turned back to John.

John glared at him through the camera. "Do you just carry on talking when I'm away?" he demanded.

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know," he answered. "How often are you away? Now, show me the car that backfired."

Sighing, John turned the laptop to the car, apparently giving up on trying to talk with Sherlock. "It's there," he said.

"That's the one that made the noise, yes?" he asked.

John turned the laptop back around so that they could see Sherlock. "Yeah," he agreed. "And if you're thinking gunshot, there wasn't one. He wasn't shot; he was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument which then magically disappeared along with the killer. That's gotta be an eight at least."

But Max just shook her head, smiling slightly. "He wasn't thinking gunshot," she said. "It can't be a gunshot, it doesn't make sense."

Sherlock smirked. "She's right," he added.

John scowled. "Then what-" he started.

Suddenly Carter was there, looking over their shoulders at Sherlock. To his credit, he didn't comment on the bedsheet. "You've got two more minutes, then I want to know more about the driver," he told Sherlock.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, forget him," he said. "He's an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?"

Carter scowled. "I think he's a suspect!" he protested.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Pass me over," he ordered.

Max sighed. "Here we go again," she muttered.

John glared at him. "Alright, but there's a mute button and I will use it," he threatened. He held out the laptop so that it was facing Carter.

"Up a bit!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I'm not talking from down here!"

Sighing, John shoved the laptop at Carter, too impatient to keep dealing with Sherlock. "Okay, just take it," he said. "Take it."

Carter took the laptop, and instantly Sherlock started talking at double speed, just as he normally did while explaining his deductions. "Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective?" he challenged. "Fair play?"

The DI scowled. "He's trying to be clever," he argued. "It's overconfidence."

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Did you see him?!" he demanded. "Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an Internet porn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ, and a limited life expectancy: and you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?!"

He turned his laptop so that they had a view of John's armchair, where none other than the man in question was sitting.

Max's eyes widened in horror. "Oh God, Phil, please ignore everything he just said, he didn't mean it in a bad way-" she started.

"What did you say?" Phil asked Sherlock anxiously, apparently unconcerned about everything else he had said. "Heart what?"

Max grimaced. "... Actually, you might want to get that checked out," she amended.

"Go to the stream," Sherlock interrupted, before Phil could say anything else.

Carter frowned. "What's in the stream?" he asked.

Sherlock scowled. "Go and see," he ordered.

Grumbling, Carter handed the laptop back to John and headed down to the stream.

Before anybody could say anything, Mrs. Hudson walked into the flat, followed by two official-looking men in suits. "Sherlock, you weren't answering your doorbell!" she exclaimed.

Max frowned. "What the...?" she muttered.

The two men strode into the flat as if they owned it. "His room's through the back," one of the men told the other. "Get him some clothes."

Sherlock scowled. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes," the man said, in a tone that made it clear he wasn't sorry at all. "You're coming with us."

He reached out to close the lid of the laptop, and Max and John shared a look. "Sherlock, what's going on?" John asked. "What's happening?"

But before Sherlock could reply, the screen went black.

Instantly John started poking at the keyboard, as if that would do anything. "We've lost him," he said. "I don't know what-"

Max scowled. "Those people took him, that's what," she interrupted. She pulled out her phone. "That's it, I'm calling Mycroft."

But before she could do anything, the young police officer ran up to them, a mobile phone in his hand. Max turned her attention to him, but John kept jabbing at the keyboard. "Doctor Watson and Ms. Arthur?" he asked.

Max nodded. "That's us," she confirmed.

"It's for you," the officer told them.

John reached out for the phone, still not tearing his gaze away from the computer. "Okay, thanks," he said.

The officer hesitated. "Uh, no, sir," he replied. "The helicopter."

Both Max and John looked up to see a helicopter coming in.

"Oh geeze," Max muttered.

000

Meanwhile, back at the flat, the second man had returned from Sherlock's room with a set of clothes, which he placed on the dining table where Sherlock was sitting. Sherlock didn't even bat an eye at it.

The first man sighed, obviously impatient. "Please, Mr. Holmes," he said. "Where you're going, you'll want to be dressed."

Sherlock cast a casual gaze over the man, taking in his appearance. Suit: £700. Unarmed. Tumbnail: manicured. Right handed. Indoor worker. Small dog.

Small dog. Two small dogs

Two small dogs. ... Three small dogs.

Sherlock smiled up at the man, his expression smug. "Oh, I know exactly where I'm going," he told him.

000

Max had never been in a helicopter before, so as they flew through the skies she couldn't help but stare in wide-eyed wonder out the window. She grinned and turned to John, who seemed rather unimpressed. "THIS IS AWESOME!" she shouted over the noise.

John frowned at her. "YOU DO KNOW THAT WE'RE BASICALLY BEING KIDNAPPED RIGHT NOW, RIGHT?!" he yelled back. "AND THAT SHERLOCK MIGHT BE IN TROUBLE?!"

She just held out her phone, showing him a text from Sherlock that had just come in.

See you at the palace.

000

A few minutes later, Max and John were being shown into an enormous hall in Buckingham Palace. Max craned her head, taking in the large chandeliers on the ceiling and the ornate decorations of the hall. "Wow," she muttered.

Their guide cleared his throat to get their attention, and he gestured to a nearby room before walking away. Max and John shared a look, then headed into the room.

There was a small round table in the middle of the room, and a set of folded clothes and a pair of shoes were placed on top of it. A sofa was on either side of the table, and Sherlock was sitting on the couch to the left... still wearing the bedsheet.

Sherlock looked up when they walked in, seeming rather calm about the whole situation. John shot him a questioning look, and Sherlock just shrugged.

That seemed to be the only answer they were getting. Nodding in resignation, John walked into the room, taking a seat next to Sherlock on the couch. Max shrugged and followed him in, sitting on Sherlock's other side.

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds, just stared awkwardly at the sofa across the table from them. Max didn't have any urge to break the silence; she didn't know what to say, and even if she did, she felt awkward saying it in Buckingham Palace, of all places.

"Are you wearing any pants?" John suddenly asked.

"No," Sherlock answered.

John was silent for a moment as he considered that, but then he nodded. "Okay," he said.

Sherlock glanced at John, then Max. They were silent for a moment... and then they burst out laughing.

John chuckled. "At Buckingham Palace, fine," he said. He tried to bite back his laughter, but he just ending up laughing even harder. "Oh, I'm seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray." Sherlock chuckled.

Max shook her head in amusement. "Well, this isn't the worst way to spend a morning," she commented.

John grinned, still laughing. "What are we doing here, Sherlock?" he asked. "Seriously, what?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know," he answered.

John laughed. "Here to see the Queen?" he suggested.

Before anybody could reply, Mycroft walked in from the next room over. Sherlock smirked. "Oh, apparently yes," he quipped.

The three of them burst out laughing, and Mycroft glared at them. "Just once, can you three behave like grown-ups?" he demanded. He scowled. "Ms. Arthur, I expected better from you."

John shrugged. "We solve crimes, I blog about it, he forgets about his pants, and she babysits us except for when we drag her along to do stupid stuff... which happens a lot," he said. "I wouldn't hold out too much hope."

Max grinned. "Hi to you too, Mycroft," she greeted.

Sherlock scowled, ignoring the other two. "I was in the middle of a case," he complained.

Max raised a hand. "Actually, John and I were in the middle of a case," she corrected. "Sherlock was sitting around in the flat."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Oh, is that your new system now?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was a six," he said. "I don't leave the flat for anything less than a seven."

Mycroft scoffed. "What case, the hiker and the backfire?" he challenged. "You consider that a six? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?"

"Transparent," Sherlock agreed.

John and Max shared a confused look. Transparent? John mouthed. Max shrugged.

"Time to move on, then," Mycroft said. He gave Sherlock a stern look. "We are in the Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock, put your trousers on."

Sherlock scoffed. "What for?" he asked.

Mycroft scowled. "Your client," he answered shortly.

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock stood up... still wrapped in his sheet. "And my client is?" he asked.

The door swung open dramatically, and they all turned to see a well-dressed man- presumably an equerry- walking into the room. "Illustrious... in the extreme," he answered, clearly enjoying his grand entrance. Max and John stood up respectfully. "And remaining, I have to inform you, completely anonymous." He nodded to Mycroft. "Mycroft," he greeted.

Mycroft nodded back, walking over to shake his hand. "Harry," he replied. "May I just apologize for the state of my little brother?"

Harry laughed. "Full-time occupation, I imagine," he teased. Sherlock scowled, and Max patted him on the arm.

"And this must be Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," Harry said, turning his attention to John.

John reached out and shook his hand. "Hello, yes," he replied politely.

Harry smiled at him. "My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog," he told him.

John blinked. "Your employer?" he repeated questioningly.

Harry nodded. "Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminum crutch," he said.

John grinned widely. "Thank you!" he exclaimed, shooting Sherlock a smug look.

The equerry turned to Max now. "And, uh, Ms. Arthur," he greeted. "The, uh... the artist." He clearly had no clue how to describe her; John had his blog and Sherlock was... well... Sherlock, but she was... oddly normal, all things considered. Almost unremarkable.

Max nodded. "Yup," she agreed. "That's me."

Harry paused, obviously not sure if he should say something else to her, then passed over her and turned to Sherlock. "And Mr. Holmes the younger," he declared. "You look taller in your photographs."

Sherlock scoffed. "I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend," he answered dryly. He turned away from him and glared at Mycroft. "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work." He nodded to Harry. "Good morning." And with that, he walked off.

He hadn't gotten far when he passed Mycroft, who sighed and dramatically stepped onto the trailing end of Sherlock's sheet. Sherlock, completely oblivious to this, continued walking... and the sheet slipped.

Sherlock managed to catch the sheet before it fell off completely, but his upper body was still bare. Max's eyes widened in horror and she looked away quickly, suddenly feeling awkward. Oh God, don't freak out, don't freak out...

Of course, Max had seen naked men before- and technically Sherlock wasn't even completely naked- so she didn't know why she suddenly wanted to melt into the sofa cushions and never come back out. It didn't make sense. But for some inexplicable reason, the thought of Sherlock stepping away from that sheet right now made her very very flustered.

She shook her head to clear it and turned her attention back to the battle between the Holmes brothers over the bedsheet. Even though she couldn't see Sherlock she could sense his anger. "This is a matter of national importance," Mycroft snapped. "Grow up!"

But that didn't seem to matter to Sherlock, especially at the moment. "Get off my sheet!" he hissed.

Mycroft scoffed. "Or what?" he challenged.

"Or I'll just walk away," Sherlock threatened.

That only seemed to amuse Mycroft, who looked at the sheet pointedly. "I'll let you," he said.

John grimaced. "Boys, please," he interrupted. "Not here."

Oh, thank God, Max thought.

"Who. Is. My. Client?" Sherlock spat, more furious now than Max had ever seen him.

Mycroft gave him a look. "Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction," he snapped, clearly impatient. "You are about to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now, for God's sakes-" He cut himself off before he could finish, glancing at Harry for a moment before reigning himself in. "... put your clothes on!"

Sherlock scowled, breathing in sharply as he attempted to get himself under control. Sighing, Max reached out and grabbed the pile of clothes on the table. "Let's just hear them out," she said gently. "Alright?"

Even though Sherlock still didn't seem pleased, he took in a deep breath and nodded. Mycroft nodded respectfully to Max as he lifted his foot off of the sheet, freeing Sherlock. Instantly Sherlock pulled the sheet back up to cover his upper body. After a second of hesitation he took the pile of clothes from Max and walked out of the room, not saying a word to anybody.

"Well, that was handled quite nicely," Mycroft commented.